


in little ways

by tinysmallest



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Coming of Age, Depression, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Post-Episode: s06e19 I Am My Monster, Post-Steven Universe Future, Pre-Steven Universe Future, Pre-Steven Universe series, Steven Universe Has PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, greg remains best dad, there is a little connverse mention as a treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26284456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinysmallest/pseuds/tinysmallest
Summary: everything staysright where you left iteverything staysbut it still changesever so slightlydaily and nightlyin little wayswhen everything staysYou never really do realize how much that applies to people, until suddenly you do. Sometimes it's bad.Steven finds that sometimes it is very, very good.
Relationships: Connie Maheswaran/Steven Universe, Greg Universe & Steven Universe
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	in little ways

Steven Universe is five years old. He wakes up in the little guest room of Miss Vidalia's house that he lives in every winter when Daddy says she goes to visit her family and crawls out of bed, gulping back tears as he pads his way down the hall to the living room where he shakes his father's sleeping form on the couch.

"Da-daddy?" His tremulous little voice sounds way too loud in the quiet house.

His father is awake in less than a few seconds, sitting upright with a soft gasp and rubbing at his eyes and Steven bites his lip, reaching up for his father's arms. Daddy reaches down and scoops him up and Steven nestles right under his chin with a sniffle, rubbing his nose on his pajama sleeve. "What's wrong, Schtu-ball?" he soothes, fingers stroking through his curls, eyes worried in the light from the street outside.

"Ba-bad dream!" he sobs in a wail, tilting his head back as it comes bursting out of him. "The-there was- there was a bi-big- a big robot! A-an' and it gobbled you all u-up and then it cha-chased me an'-"

"Shhhhhh sh sh shhhh." Daddy's hand is big and warm on his back, rubbing circles into it. "Deep breaths. A bad guy came and ate me?"

"Mmhmm." Big, wet eyes peek pitifully up at him from his chest. "A-an'- an' I was all 'lone."

His father presses a kiss to his forehead, his voice warmer than any blanket. "I'm sorry. That must have been so scary. But I'm right here, kiddo. It didn't happen and it won't ever, okay?"

"Mmmnnn."

"... How about this; why don't we make a plan in case it ever does? That way, you'll know just what to do."

He sniffs. "O-okay..."

"Okay." He smiles, and it is soft and gentle and nothing will ever hurt them ever, so long as Daddy is here. Steven lays his head against his chest. "So here's what we do..."

The rest of the world melts quietly away.

* * *

Steven Universe is seven and sitting in the van, plucking quietly at his ukulele. His tongue sticks out of his mouth, tiny fingers carefully working to coax the right notes from the strings.

Despite his hard work, the intense concentration, a string snaps. It avoids catching his fingers and the sound isn't even especially loud, but the suddenness of it pulls a sound that is part squeak, part yelp from him.

"How's it going, Schtu-ball?"

He looks up to find Daddy putting a knee onto the edge of the van floor, leaning over to pull a water bottle from the package they'd stopped to buy on their way here. His eyes stray from aiding him in freeing the bottle from the plastic to looking over at Steven with a smile.

The smile fades, a frown of concern taking its place. "Steven?"

Steven looks down at the broken ukulele string with a sniffle.

"Oh," comes the response, further softened. "Here, let Daddy fix that for you?"

He holds his hands out. Steven lifts the ukulele up and over his head, Daddy accepting the instrument and pulling out a repair kit from where it sat behind the box of water bottles.

Steven watches in silence as Daddy pulls out a string and sets about restringing the instrument. He watches as he slides the string through the hole in the back of the piece of wood--the bridge, Daddy had called it--and tied it in place, then pulls it a few inches past the tuning peg he was going to tie it to. He snips off the excess and feeds it through the tuning peg.

"You know," his father says as he worked, "you've been snapping strings more often than usual. Is something wrong? Are you stuck on something?"

Steven shakes his head without really thinking about it. "Jus' not payin' attention as much as I should."

"Oh, well- that happens sometimes." He looks up at him and smiles kindly at him, eyes crinkling at the edges. "It can be hard to focus if you're thinking about something else. Maybe that's a sign you need a break?" He lowers his head to resume his work, but keeps talking. "Remember that talk we had about burnout?"

Steven nods without really thinking about it. There is something really nice about watching him work. He watches Daddy's hands, rough with callouses, carefully work with the tiny pieces of the instrument to restring the ukulele, turning the tuning peg afterwards to tune it.

He wants to be able to do that someday. Maybe he should ask.

_What would be the point if you can't play and your song's awful?_

"What if they don't like it?" he mumbles.

Steven doesn't realize he'd said that out loud until his father's head jerks up with a look of surprise. "Huh?"

"Nothing," he says quickly, kneading his too-large shirt in embarrassed fistfuls.

Daddy reaches over to draw his fingers through his hair. "Kiddo, is this about the song you wrote for them?"

Steven hunches his shoulders with a wince, but the gentle touch coaxes his head up. His father is still smiling, eyes kind with understanding.

"It's scary," he soothes, "putting your work out there. I know."

He returns to the ukulele for a moment and finishes tuning it, handing it back to Steven before sweeping the small boy onto his lap. He cuddles him close, Steven laying his head back against Daddy's stomach.

"Sometimes you realize how what you made has your heart and soul in it, and it's really scary, exposing that heart to other people. But the gems love you, kiddo. And they'll be so proud that you wrote something for them- much less that you can play it for them!" Steven closes his eyes, listening to the smile in Daddy's voice. "They'll love it because it's _your_ heart and soul. And honestly, also because it's really good."

Steven makes a little noise and his father gives him a light poke.

"I mean it, mister. You've got real talent!"

Steven blinks and looked up at him. "Really?"

"Mmhm." Another poke, to his side. That tickles! He giggles. "With your cute lyrics-"

Another poke. Steven squirms, giggling louder.

"And your nice harmonies-"

"Daddyyyyyyyy!" He tries to shove at the hands both poking him now half-heartedly, overcome with squirming laughter.

"And can't forget that nice angelic voice-"

"Eeeee noooooooo stoooooop!" Steven begins poking his father's belly, making his daddy laugh too. His father lifts the ukulele over his head and begins to tickle under his arms, making Steven shriek with laughter, but he stops after a second and Steven mimics him, prompting his father's own snorts and shouts.

It ends with his father lying on the floor on his back and Steven on his chest, smiling into his face.

His daddy smiles back, laying a hand on his head.

"You do your old man proud already." His eyes shine. "I can't wait to watch you grow up, kiddo. I love you."

Steven wraps his little arms around his father as best he can. "I love you too."

* * *

Steven Universe is ten, and the autumn breeze is cool on his back as he sits on the bench and swings his legs, ukulele on his lap, fidgeting with the strings. He is bored, frightfully bored, the feeling nails scraping along the inside of his brain, but he just has to try to be patient _just_ a bit longer.

The wind blows a ballroom of fall leaves past him, dancing and twirling on the updraft. He could write a song to that, right? Yeah, he could!

_little leaves_   
_fall from the trees_   
_come twirl up a dance for me!_   
_play on the breeze_   
_on your way towards the sea_   
_come twirl up a dance for me!_

He's getting better at the ukulele, he thinks. Dad ran out of stuff to teach him ages ago; said he'd covered all the bases and now there was nothing to do but play. Hone his craft, Dad said. But don't overdo it. Burnout was an awful monster.

So he's careful to follow that advice. But it's hard to, sometimes. He loves to play and write music. He loves snatching new songs from thin air and breathing life into them. He doesn't think he could live if he couldn't create it, play it, learn it, listen to it.

It's like breathing. If he can't do it, he'll suffocate.

He assumed for awhile that everyone was like that. It was jarring when he learned the other children in town didn't experience the same thing.

It's still confusing, even now. Maybe he could understand if there was something they needed the way he and his dad need music, but one of them just... doesn't seem to have that.

It was when he realized that that he also realized this same boy was usually alone. And he always seemed so sad.

Steven swings his legs again, plucking a few idle notes. That song needs work, but he's not feeling it right now. Doesn't mean he can't try coaxing other music from his instrument, though.

How long does it take a bus to get from Ocean Town to Beach City, anyway? _Drive faster bus man! I'm dying!_

A honk startles him and his mouth falls open as the bright yellow bus pulls up. "I SUMMONED IT!" he crows as the children file off the bus. They all look at him, but he's only looking back for one boy-

And there he is!

"LARS!" He leaps up and waves, and the other boy flinches back, staring at him first in confusion and then... frowns?

The other kids are staring too. Weird.

"St-steven- what- what are you doing here!" He recovers fast, hands on his hips. Steven smiles despite the scowl.

"I waited for you! I thought we could go to the arcade-"

"No." He glares around. Steven isn't sure who he's glaring at. The other kids are gone.

Lars's face relaxes a bit when he realizes this, and without another word, he turns to walk away.

"W-wait!" Steven jumps up off the bench. "I- I thought-"

Lars doesn't stop.

"O-okay! M-maybe tomorrow then!" Still nothing. "Uh- Saturday! Saturday's fine!"

Lars turns the corner. Steven droops.

"They've got a Saturday special?" he pleads to no one.

The leaves whirl again. Steven watches them before sighing and grabbing his ukulele.

It's a quiet walk to the car wash. He finds his dad just inside the building with the big brushes, hosing it down, and can't find the will to wave when Dad waves first. The bright smile droops, and Dad turns the hose off as he draws near.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, setting it aside.

"Lars didn't wanna go to the arcade," Steven mumbles, folding his arms across his chest. His father pats his shoulder.

"Maybe he's just busy?"

"Maybe..." He looks away. Dad crouches onto one knee.

"Maybe he's just grumpy. Maybe he had a bad day and he needs space." He hesitates. "Maybe he's just- not a very nice kid."

Steven balks. "Oh no! He's not a bad kid! He's just sad."

"Those things aren't exclusive, buddy."

His dad's voice is gentle, but Steven isn't having it. "But he just looks sad! Maybe he's scared of anyone knowing."

He fidgets.

"Or maybe I'm just not doing it right," he adds in a sad little whisper.

"Oh- Steven, no..." Dad cups his face with both hands. "... One of the hardest lessons you'll ever learn is... sometimes you can be the nicest you you can be, and it still won't be enough."

He tucks a particularly unruly curl behind his ear, something in his eyes heavy. "Sometimes people just aren't compatible. And sometimes they're just mean. That's not your fault, son."

"... But he seems so... lonely. Won't he feel better if he just has a friend? Doesn't he just need a friend...?"

His father's smile was sad. "... He probably would feel better if he had a friend. But you don't need to be that friend."

"But I wanna be."

Dad kisses the top of his head.

"You're a sweet kid," he murmurs. "But you don't need to be everybody's friend."

"I wanna be his. He's nice. I like him."

His father let out a soft sigh, cupping his face. "Maybe he really is just grumpy today, or sad, and needs space. But there's no shame in leaving something be."

Steven's insides squirms. "I... I wanna keep trying. But... he doesn't wanna today. And I don't wanna go alone."

Dad straightens up and looked around the car wash, a hand still on his head. "... You know what? It's been a really slow day here, stchu-ball. Let me finish up here and I'll close up early, and we can go."

He brightens, feeling the stars return to his step as he starts bouncing. "Really!?"

_Dad never closes up early, though!_

He smiles at him. "As long as you don't mind hanging out with your old man."

"Never! Never ever! Oh my god c'mon dad let's go let's hurry up what do you need help with-"

His father's laughter echoes around the building as Steven grabs the hose and charges deeper inside.

* * *

Steven Universe is fourteen, turned fourteen three days ago, actually, and is standing side-by-side with his father at his bathroom sink, razor held in nervous, twitchy fingers. "Like this, right?"

"Yup, just like that. Now you want to put it against your face like this-" Dad demonstrated with a razor of his own, the protective plastic casing over the blade to avoid actually maiming his beard. "And then slowly, carefully draw it down. No need to rush."

Steven draws the razor down his face in a slow but shaky motion, letting out a soft gasp of pain. "Ah!"

Dad winces in sympathy. "Well- close, yeah. You okay? How good did it get you-" He leans over his son to check without waiting for an answer. Steven let him look at the cut on his chin for a moment before reaching for the box of bandaids, his hand touching his father's hand instead of the box. They look at one another and laugh.

"Sorry," Dad apologizes as he withdrew his hand to let Steven take the box, smile sheepish. "Guess you can uh- patch up your own cuts, huh?"

"Well I mean..." He looks at the weeping cut and winces. "... Yeah, but still. Thanks."

He blinks as Steven opens the box and fishes out a bandaid. "For what?" 

"For taking time out to help me," he answers as he peeled off the paper and aligned the cotton part with the cut. "I guess I was a little eager and a little too nervous at the same time?" He laughs, a little shakily. Like his hands. "I always mess up worse when I'm like that. Too excited to do the thing and too nervous to really stop and think and steady myself so I can do it _right."_

His father's warm hand comes to rest on his back, and when Steven looks up and over at him, it was to kind eyes gazing down at him with a fondness beyond measure. "Everyone's a little nervous about new things. Even good things. Especially big, new things, like milestones."

Steven thinks about the way Connie smiled at him, and cuddled into his chest, and how the wind had tugged at her curls in the summer sunset. _Like growing up and falling in love?_ he wants to ask.

"Like shaving?" he asks instead.

"Like shaving," Dad ruffles his hair. "And sometimes you make mistakes, but that's learning any skill. Your old man will always be here to help you master them, however long it takes."

Steven looks back into the mirror, at the only facial hair he'd grown and yet still somehow managed to miss.

_Connie declaring she liked him even if he didn't grow at the same pace as her, would always care about him, something that felt so, so obvious in hindsight by how she panicked when she thought he'd melted into a microscopic thing._

"Even if it takes awhile?"

"Always."

He stares at their reflections, side-by-side, the hand on his back, and picks up the razor again with a smile.

"Thanks."

* * *

Steven Universe is sixteen and sitting across from his father at breakfast, resisting the urge to swing his feet like a child because the buzz in his brain and the core of his being won't go away.

He meant it when he told Dad he thought he could pull off the new look, he really did. Dad is Dad and will always be Dad, no matter what his hair looked like.

And it is because of that fact that his gut still aches. As his father makes small talk about the weather and Little Homeschool and some of the new Beach City gem residents, Steven finds himself staring at the short hair, especially when Dad turns to address their waitress, removing the threat of him _noticing_ Steven staring for about a minute.

He sees the look she gives them, too. Not many people know the Universes that well, but everyone knows _of_ them. Dad is less invisible to the fellow humans of Beach City than he is to the gems that inhabited the town to work and learn and play. While they remain oblivious to the fact that something awful must have happened, the human townies sure aren't. Their waitress's look is one of nosy worry.

Steven prays she won't _act_ on that worry.

He likes to think that all these years together means he can read Dad like a book. Every gesture, every crease and line in his face, every widening of the eyes. Steven prides himself on reading people in general, and he knows his Dad better than he knows just about anyone else. Better than just about anyone else knows Dad, actually.

And what he reads right now are glaring signs of upset. It shows in the slight shake of his hands when he goes to cut his waffles, the lines around his eyes, the slightly-too-wide look he throws the way of the door when it suddenly opens with too much force because quartzes never know their own strength ever.

It reminds him of when they escaped the Zoo. The tremors, the fake smiles, the frightened eyes that sometimes glazed over. The realization he'd failed in his promise to make sure gem stuff never touched his dad again was something that had hit him earlier, but it doesn't make the resurfacing of that realization suck any less. His gut feels like lead, filled with so much guilt he could be sick with it.

His dad trembles a little all over as the quartzes step inside, crowing about... something he has no context for.

He desperately doesn't want anyone to call attention to it. Dad's already not having a good time. Please don't make it worse.

Thankfully their waitress does not. She sticks around for a second as Dad cuts into his breakfast, left frozen for a moment by the sudden loud entrance of the quartzes, before smiling at them and going to see what the gems might want.

His father laughs, a little too forcefully, and shakes his head. "You'd think they'd learn how light wooden doors are sometime!"

"You'd think," Steven manages to chuckle, shoveling a bite of pancakes into his mouth. It tastes like sawdust. _Maybe the cook's new._

Something must have shown on his face, because Dad pauses before lowering his fork and reaching across the table. "Hey," he says softly. "Are you okay?"

He asked that question not even an hour ago and somehow it's harder to answer this time.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He forces a smile. It must not have worked, because Dad's frown only deepens and the knot in his forehead only gets more pronounced. "Really," Steven adds."

"... I know what happened this morning was- scary." Dad's grip tightens on his shoulder before letting go. He doesn't return to his food so much as push it around on his plate a little. "I know you said you were okay earlier but- really- if you need to talk-"

"No, I'm fine," Steven promises. The words fall out so easily and naturally he barely hears himself say them, doesn't have to think about it. "Really."

Dad puts his fork down and looks at him with a gaze so strongly empathetic that Steven for a moment fears his father is actually staring into his soul. "... I believe you," he said after a moment. "But if it ever suddenly becomes... _not_ fine, come tell me, okay? I won't be bothered by it."

Steven nods, still smiling. Dad said the same thing when he kept asking after the Zoo, kept getting the same answer, but really, how _wouldn't_ it be a bother? Dad had his own worries then, and he does now.

Dad believed him after the umpteenth time of being promised he was fine, his gentle offer always present each time but especially stressed the last time before he dropped the questioning entirely, and this time is no different.

If only he had believed Dad's promise in return.

* * *

Steven Universe is seventeen and curled around his phone, under his comforter, trying to ignore the sunlight against his bed.

He should get up. He should go take a shower and brush his teeth. He should get something to eat. He should go sit outside. If absolutely nothing else, he should do just that really short list.

But he can't move. He should get up. He should get up. Why can't he move? He notices a pink glow against his phone and lets out a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl.

"Schtu-ball?"

He jolts, brain taking a minute to catch up to reality. Steven pushes his comforter aside a little to peek out, his father's worried face looking back.

At the sight of him, Dad's concern melts into a smile. "Hey," he says in hushed tones. "How're you feeling?"

 _Like I can't even talk._ He gives his father a grimace. A knot of concerned sympathy set itself in Dad's forehead.

"Want food?"

Does he? He thinks he does. He should eat something anyway. So he nods. Dad smiled at him and straightened, leaving the room.

Steven isn't sure how much time passed in a foggy haze, but it's disturbed when Dad returns. The smell of pancakes make him blink, pushing his comforter aside to sit up.

"You didn't have to-" he starts, voice cracking as his father passes him the plate. His creaky protests are immediately smothered with a very careful hug.

"I did," Dad soothes. "And I wanted to."

"But-"

"Shhh. No buts." He draws back, smoothing back Steven's hair as he sits on the edge of the bed. "Is it a talking day? Or a quiet sharing space day?"

Steven hesitates before holding up two fingers.

"You got it." The large hand begins to rub his back in circles as Steven rubs tears from his eyes. Stupid! Why is he crying!?

He's nibbling at the meal when his father adds, very quietly, "It's a lot. Sometimes things overflow. It's okay to cry. It's okay to talk. It's okay to not talk. Whatever you need, I'm here."

He turns to look at his father's face, at his dark brown eyes filled with so much love, before he rubs his eyes and begins to eat, really eat- slowly, but surely.

He leans into Dad's side.

Dad pats his back.

* * *

Steven Universe is eighteen. The world snaps into focus with jarring, sickening suddenness, like he just fell from one plane of existence to another. In a way, he did.

He lays there, gasping in the silence that thunders in his ears, in the thick heat settling over the room. He shudders, feeling tears track down the sides of his face, head full of cotton and fog. Where is he? What day is it? What time is it? It's dark.

He doesn't like that it's dark.

He tries to get out bed. Falls. The thud shakes the house and Steven whimpers as he tries to kick away the sheets twined around his leg, the feeling of being pinned making his stomach turn. He succeeds, flailing to his feet, opening the door to the balcony.

He hesitates, slams it shut, runs downstairs, and flees out the front door instead, taking the stairs two at a time and nearly falling his way down them.

The sea spray is a nearly welcome bite against his skin at first, but despite doing better to draw him into reality, it doesn't make the sick pit in his stomach go away. He is now wide awake, painfully wide awake, and yet every fiber of his body still shrieks sirens. His pulse is near painful.

He slows to a stop along the beachfront, doubling over, hands on his knees, breath coming in gulps and gasps.

What now?

He could go find the gems. He has full access to the temple, welcome whenever he wants.

He doesn't want to find the gems. They can't help him here.

Steven takes a moment to contemplate the trembling of his body before he admits what it is he _actually_ needs to do, and he straightens, turning to jog back around to the boardwalk. Reaching where the wood meets the sand of the beach and the grass of the hill, he runs up the block towards the car wash, feeling his gut churn. He doesn't realize until he stops running that he'd even started, chest heaving.

He hesitates at the sight of the van before he pushes back the faint _this is dumb this is dumb this is duuuuumb you're too old for this sort of shit_ echoing in scolding bursts from the back of his head and stands on his tiptoes to peer through the diamond window in the back of the van.

There's Dad, asleep, bundled comfortably in what was probably a more orderly setup at some point and during the night devolved into more of a nest than anything else.

Overpowering relief sweeps in like the tide he had just been running adjacent to a few minutes ago. His knees turn to jelly and a powerful burn creeps into his eyes, Steven covering his mouth and putting his back to the van, sliding to the ground and stifling as a sob. The van is icy against his back even through the random yellow shirt he'd decided to designate a pajama shirt. His hand finds his hair, grasping fingers twisting themselves into his curls, his other hand still over his mouth.

It's unusually chilly for a summer night. In two weeks he leaves for his road trip. These are random facts that have nothing especially to do with the situation and yet they're dredged to the forefront of his mind. Why?

Steven takes a moment to sit with the thought. The former is probably just because it's miserable. He's miserable. He doesn't want to be here, in this moment, right now, and the chilly night air is compounding his inner turmoil. The second...

Can he really say he's ready for this venture when just a single nightmare is enough to rip him apart like this?

It's a thought so upsetting he yanks himself away from it like touching a hot stove. His therapist would be disappointed in him for not engaging with the thought. He really doesn't have the energy to do much but hate his cowardice for a brief moment and then try to move on.

_Dad. Dad is fine. Dad is safe. You can go home now._

... But he doesn't want to.

The thought makes his stomach squirm. What is he supposed to do? Wake Dad up? Bother him with the figment of his imagination? _Hey Dad, I know it's like three in the morning, but funny thing- I had a dream about Eyeball and Aquamarine using that knife to do exactly what they were planning! So, how about the weather, huh?_

No, he really doesn't think he had to bring that up again.

... He could wake him up without telling him details, though. _Should_ he wake him up? Would that be selfish?

He could _hear_ his therapist. _"Steven, people love you. Let them love you. It's not a crime to accept the different ways they love you even when it inconveniences them; relationships are give and take."_

 _Well, guess Dad's getting his money's worth,_ he thinks, slowly, shakily rising to his feet.

It still feels wrong. It's the reminder that Greg would be even sadder if he didn't wake him--even if Steven knows that's not the proper motivation--that makes him swallow and knock on the window, finally.

Greg jerks, sitting upright so quickly Steven can hear his back crack. This was a mistake.

But it's too late now. Greg's head turns towards where the sound came from, blearily blinking sleep from his eyes, and freezes as awareness hits. He scrambles up to his knees and Steven can hear him fumbling to crawl over to the doors, throwing them open as Steven makes his way around to the back. "Steven? Steven what-?"

"Hi Dad," he whispers around the thick lump in his throat, feeling supremely stupid, standing there shivering the way he is.

Dad makes a soft hushing noise, ushering him inside with sweeping gestures of his arms, and Steven is too weak to resist, especially since he did just wake the man up. He crawls inside, Greg immediately bundling him in one of the blankets he'd been using for sleeping before hugging him tight. Steven watches as he unsuccessfully tries to close the door without letting go of him by hooking his foot on the inside handles, but he manages it before Steven can apologize and move to do it himself.

"You're freezing!" he laments, letting go of him just enough so as to lean back and get a look at him. "What happened!?"

Feeling his father's warmth retreat even just a little leaves a yawning yearning somewhere in his center. Without giving himself time to think much more on it Steven moves forward to follow his father's movement and buries his face into the crook of his neck. "Nightmare," he croaked, willing his voice to hold and disappointed it doesn't do anything of the sort. "I just- I just had to make sure you were okay."

The tenseness in his father's form melted a little with the promise of no imminent threat, Dad reaching up with one hand to softly stroke his fingers carefully through his hair. "Oh Steven..." He felt his father's face press against his head for a moment and only half swallowed the whine that slipped out. "I'm here. Everything's okay. You need to talk about it?"

_"No no nO NO DON'T PLEASE STEVEN HELP-"_

He couldn't shake his head, buried against him like this, but he untangled his hands from the blanket enough to fist them in his father's shirt. _You can feel his pulse like this. This is him. He's okay. He's alive. They didn't hurt him. You didn't let them. He found a way out, and you made sure they didn't go into the house after him, and then the gems squashed them outside._

"... I can't," he pleads. His father's arms squeeze him tighter.

"Writing?" comes the soft suggestion.

"Not this time. Not-"

Would he be ready to share this anytime soon?

... No, he can't promise that. He can't say 'later' when he didn't know when that would be. It would be too much like lying.

"Not yet. Dunno if soon."

"Okay," Dad soothes. He begins rubbing circles into his back. "Do you want to stay the night?"

"... Do you mind?" His voice sounds pathetic even to him.

"Never," he promises.

Steven swallows back a sob with a gulp and nuzzles his face into Dad's shoulder. His father's chest begins to vibrate as Greg starts to hum; a low, soft, gentle white noise he's heard a million times.

 _And will a million more,_ Steven realizes.

And will a million more.

Steven lets the heavy tension begin to leave, feels the coiled bands in his muscles loosen.

He lets his heavy lids finally close.

The rest of the world melts quietly away.

**Author's Note:**

> You'll have to kill me to make me stop writing Greg and Steven fics and that is a threat.


End file.
